Chapter 14
KATE
The snarl that fills the house makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. As I push back from my computer and run down the hall, I’m terrified of what I’ll find.
Cole stands behind his desk, shoulders heaving as he gasps for breath.
His chair has been thrown onto its side, casters splayed like the legs of a dying spider.
The shards of a plate spray across the foot of the wall, bits of egg and bacon splattered across glass that used to be a top-of-the-line monitor.
“What—” I start to ask as he throws his coffee cup. Another screen shatters. He grabs a steel cup of pens. “Cole—” I try again, but a third screen shatters.
He tears the landline out of the wall and hurls the receiver against yet another monitor.
He sweeps a stack of paper onto the floor, sending pages flying.
He rips a surge suppressor out of its socket and uses the strip to beat the edge of his desk.
And all the while, he’s making that sound—half growl, half howl, the noise an animal makes chewing off its leg to escape a trap.
I reach out to take the surge suppressor from his hand, but he wields it like a bat. His anglepoise lamp goes flying, the lightbulb shattering when it hits the floor.
Nilsson has come running, and Anna too. They’re standing in the door as if they’re watching a wild beast escaping a cage. Nilsson bravely shields his wife, but they both duck for cover when Cole tears open his desk drawer.
The 44 Magnum he comes up with looks as long as a rifle.
I close the distance between us before he can aim the gun at one of the surviving monitors. I shout, “No!” as I close both my hands over his. It takes all my strength to lever the weapon to his side. “No,” I say again, my face pressed to his.
I’ve never seen Cole like this. He’s the poster boy for restraint. Every action he’s ever taken has been measured and calculated, calibrated and recalibrated before he makes a fraction of a move.
But now sweat streams from his face like he’s battling a fever. There’s an animal musk about him, thick and heavy. His shirt has twisted free of his waistband, two buttons have gone missing, and his trousers are splashed with coffee.
Still holding his hand—which continues to grip the revolver—I lean my body into his. “No,” I say a third time. “Let it go.”
I don’t know what it is. I can’t imagine what has devastated his iron-clad control. I only know he has to set it aside before it destroys him completely.
My mobile buzzes in my pocket. I don’t shift a muscle—whoever is texting can wait. But Nilsson’s phone rings, a summons he stills in seconds.
Cole collapses against me. His hand shifts, and he gives up the gun. “It’s started.”
“What’s started?” I ask, taking most of his weight with my shoulder. I maneuver him back a step or two. Without my asking, Nilsson sidles into the room, turning the chair upright and wheeling it close enough to take Cole’s sagging body.
Anna’s phone rings. She’s slower to turn hers off than Nilsson was. Glancing at the screen, she frowns, and then she backs out of the room. “Wait,” I hear her say from the hallway. “Slow down. I can’t understand you.”
My phone chimes, the birdsong I’ve set for Breagha’s calls, the one tone I never allow to be silenced.
“Go on,” Cole says, and he sounds like Atlas, shifting the weight of the world. “It will only get worse.”
I tuck the revolver into the waistband of my sweats before I accept the call. “Breagha? Can it wait?”
“Poor Cole.” She sounds like she can’t catch her breath. “Is he okay?”
“He’s…” I don’t have an answer for that. “What happened?”
“You haven’t seen it?”
“Seen what?”
“It’s all over the news.”
I pull my phone away from my ear and stab a finger at an app. Headlines leap from my screen.
Billionaire Hacker Exposed as Fraud
White Hat Billionaire Goes Black
Lone Wolf Billionaire Unmasked
I tap on the first story, skimming so quickly the words waver. Reclusive billionaire Cole Wolf… Fraud… White hat hacker trusted by banks and corporations worldwide… Fraud… Seen just this week with the Silicon Valley brain trust… Fraud… Fraud… Fraud…
“Breagha,” I say. “I’ll call you back.” And then I say to Cole, “It’s all lies.”
He shakes his head, but before he can speak, Nilsson’s phone rings again.
“Jacobson,” Nilsson says to us, identifying the caller. This time he answers. “Yes?” he asks. And then a series of short sharp answers, rising in pitch as the implacable Swede becomes flustered: “No… Send them away… They have no right... No… Mr. Wolf has no comment… No… I do not know when…”
He listens for longer, and then he says, “Dammit! This is your job. Send them away.”
Jacobson’s voice rises in pitch as well. Nilsson interrupts him to say, “Fine. You cannot make them leave. Tell them they will be waiting a very long time for a response.”
Nilsson ends the call. “Reporters,” he says, the way most people would talk about slime molds.
There isn’t any meaningful response to that, but I ask, “Can you give us a few minutes?”
Nilsson turns with military precision. As he crosses the room, the heels of his oxfords sound like gunshots against the floor.
I wait until the door is closed before I ask, “What the hell happened?”
“Tarasov.”
“What about him?”
“He released the indictment.”
“That makes no sense,” I say. “That feckin’ document was a monthly paycheck for him.”
“There’s something he wants more than money.”
I understand every one of the words. They’re simple. Straightforward. Not one of them’s more than two syllables.
But what mob boss passes up the opportunity to skim ten million a month, no strings attached? Da would have sold me in a heartbeat if he could have guaranteed a take like that.
Da did sell me. To Cole. So Cole could handle the Canton Crew’s computers, managing all the clan’s finances.
“Tarasov’s staking his own claim,” Cole says.
“What claim?”
“He wants RedBear. The cryptocurrency will practically print money for him.”
“He’s been hollering for that all along.”
“And he wants you.”
“That’s not news—”
“He knows I was dragging my feet. Drawing things out until we came up with a plan to keep you safe.”
“You weren’t dragging your feet. You were working. Coding takes time.”
Cole sighs. “Too much time for Tarasov.”
Anger, my familiar friend, flares beneath my breastbone. “Well, if he thinks this approach will work, he’s a regular header.”
Cole shakes his head. He doesn’t know the Irish slang.
“The shitehawk’s mad,” I clarify. “Sure, he’s made your life miserable, releasing the indictment. But that will only slow down your work on RedBear. And now he’s handed over his best bargaining chip.”
“I’m not so sure about that. He released the indictment because he thinks he has a bigger stick.”
“Like what?”
“Your Red Cap record. He’ll get you arrested.”
“That threat’s not new. Besides, your lawyers will have me out by suppertime. They can drag out trials for years. There must be something more immediate. Something worth giving up the steady draw of blackmail.”
Cole sighs. His eyes are dull as he stares at the mess at the foot of the wall, the jumble of glass and office supplies, of pottery and food. “I don’t know what it is. Yet.”
“You’re certain he can’t get past the firewall?”
“As certain as I’ve ever been about anything.”
I’ve tested the code myself. I can’t imagine finding a way in. “What about Nilsson? And Anna?”
“You think he can buy them?”
I snort. “I’d love to see him try. But they’re vulnerable. They cross the street every day to work here. And that street is now full of feckin’ reporters screaming for their pound of flesh…”
Cole pulls himself out of his chair. He’s regained control over his body; every motion is measured. But the room still stinks of desperation.
Nilsson is waiting just outside the door. “Sir?” he asks, immediately drawing himself to attention.
“Effective immediately, you and Anna are confined to your home, across the street.”
“Sir?” Nilsson asks again, and this time there’s emotion buried deep beneath the word. He’s confused.
“It’s not safe for you to come here now.”
“With all due respect, sir—”
“The articles hitting the news are part of a targeted campaign from the Tarasov bratva. We think it’s an opening volley. And we can’t be certain some of those reporters aren’t plants.”
“I understand, sir.” Nilsson says the words, but it’s clear from his demeanor that he isn’t backing down.
“But?” Cole prompts him.
“But you need us.”
“What I need—”
“Sir,” Nilsson interrupts. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him cut off his boss. From the look of surprise on Cole’s face, it’s the first time he’s ever heard it too. “The problem, as I understand it, is not our being in this house. It is our arriving at the house every morning.”
“And leaving it every evening,” Cole says testily.
“Then we will not arrive. Or leave.”
“Nilsson—”
“With your permission, sir,” Nilsson says, cutting him off again. Cole looks dumbfounded. “Anna and I will move into the unoccupied maid’s room off the kitchen. We can pack our bags and be settled within the hour. Sir.”
Cole opens his mouth. Closes it. “Impossible,” he finally says.
Privacy. That’s the one thing Cole Wolf demands more than absolute, perfect control. That’s why this house has twenty-foot-high fences. That’s why the network has a military-grade firewall. Cole Wolf doesn’t play well with others.
But this isn’t a game. This is a life-or-death battle with the bratva. And keeping Nilsson and Anna safe isn’t enough.
“Granny and Breagha should move too,” I say. “Along with Mrs. Watson.”
“I’m not opening a fucking hotel,” Cole says sourly.
Nilsson has the good sense to stay silent.
“No,” I say. “You’re opening your home. Our home. Ask Jacobson—he’ll tell you it’s easier to protect one property than two.”
“Kate…”
There’s an entire argument buried in how he says my name.
With Nilsson and Anna off the kitchen and my relatives upstairs, we’re forfeiting any chance of maintaining a private life.
The dungeon may be sound-proofed, but neither of us can maintain any illusion about playing down there while my grandmother sorts her knitting in one of the guest rooms.
And it’s not just the dungeon. It’s the dining room, where Cole once cuffed me to his chair. It’s the foyer, where he pressed me up against the door. It’s his office, where he leashed me to the wall.
We’ve been living in a dream world, Cole and me. This house has been an enchanted forest, where we’ve been able to stray from every path without fear of blame or penalty.
“You said it yourself,” I tell him. “Tarasov’s plotting to use a bigger stick. We need to take that stick away. Just for a couple of weeks.”
A couple of weeks.
I don’t say what will happen at the end of the month. Cole has promised to deliver RedBear. Tarasov has promised to make me his bride.
But if we don’t do this—if we don’t move everyone into the house—we might not get to the end of the month.
Cole nods before he gestures to Nilsson. “Go ahead. Work with Jacobson and make it happen.”
Nilsson’s barely out the door when Cole’s mobile buzzes four times, a flurry of messages coming in at once. Annoyed, he starts to toss the device onto his bare desk. When he glances at the screen, though, his lips pull down in a frown.
I cross to his side as he taps the glass, and I crane my neck to make out the words.
Nikolai Tarasov
Now you know I make no idle threats
RedBear
One week
Or else
A video plays beneath the words. It takes me a moment to recognize the scene—the Andersons’ suburban home. Mrs. A is carrying in groceries from the car. She hands two bags to Mr. A on the front porch and turns back to retrieve another from her Honda’s trunk.
A time-stamp runs in the corner, counting off tenths of seconds. The display shows today’s date. We’re watching a live transmission.
We’re watching Nikolai Tarasov’s bigger stick.